No Victor
by Ana-DaughterofHades
Summary: The medical tent will be filled soon. Filled with more buzzing flies, rotting corpses, and screams of the dying. There can be no sentiment in war. There can be no love in war. American Civil War AU. Zutara. FCP Approved.
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: I do not own ATLA**

 **This was written for Summer's Day fanfic contest. I chose the Historically Inspired prompt, chosing to write about the American Civil War. If you squint, there is some actual historical terms mentioned. There is also (major) hinting at Zutara.**

 **You should all check out Summer's Day by Sun Daughter. She gives great tips on writing for the Avatar Universe and for writing in general:)**

 **Also thanks to Ptolomeia on tumblr who edited this for me!**

 **Has anyone seen Star Wars the Force Awakens? Because OMG it was amazing:)**

* * *

 _America, 1863_

* * *

The uniform is baggy but is able to hide her curves tightly pressed to her chest. The band itches. It's too tight and is presumably scoring red marks into her skin that she cares to ignore. A shard of glass is perched in front of her, acting as a mirror. She turns her lips down, trying to emulate her brother. With her brown hair chopped short and buried under her hat, she can pass as a man, if a surgeon doesn't look under her clothes.

A scream cuts through the thin fabric of her tent, startling away any butterflies from her stomach. Another amputee victim. She wonders if this one will survive. She wonders if he had charged into battle the day before or was left on the battlefield from many days and had only been recently discovered.

She wonders if she knows the man.

When she pushes the flap of the tent back, her eyes catch dawn on the horizon. The pinks and yellows shoot across the sky. The artillery is still smoking, but there are no more distant blasts. She hopes bodies are no longer littering the field. Flies buzz around her head. But she isn't a dead body, so she swats them away.

"Kata- Kato!" A harsh whisper cuts through the buzzing, and she turns her head slightly.

Her brother has his forage cap tucked under his arms and leans by the tree. He will be shipped off to a voluntary regiment today; she declined to go with him. Katara is needed here. On this current battlefield.

"Yes?" She deepens her voice, for the practice.

A bear hug awaits her, and she buries her nose into his golden buttons and navy blue fabric. "I'll miss you," he chokes.

' _I'll never see you again,'_ is what she wants to say in return. Instead, Katara voices, "I'll miss you too... Don't die on me."

"Be good, little sister," he whispers to their shadows.

She watches his back fade into the rising sun. Katara salutes him as he hops up into the carriage with the other volunteers. As her fingers leave her forehead, her lips part to form 'I love you.' Sokka is too far away now to hear her silent words.

The medical tent is infested with flies again. Eight, nine, _ten_ bodies are covered with sheets the corpses cannot afford to keep. Katara will have to take them off of the bodies later; it's not like the dead will be cold.

There can be no sentiment in war.

There can be no love in war.

The bodies of the scared, of the comatose, and of the dead soldiers pass before her as if they are on an assembly line, but this is not one of the factories her brother used to work in. Katara's throat contracts; her airway is cut off, and she chokes when she sees the next body plopped on the table.

His face has been marred, probably from being caught in a shell blast. She stifles a sob, a gasp, and a scream. Katara will not be able to help every man; she will not be able to help this man even if he is her... friend.

The whole left side of his face has been scorched. It is still bleeding, leaking into his black hair and onto the unsanitized table below. His red blood now belongs with the dried patches of others. He is now one of the injured when the day before his eyes were alight and laughing, and his hands were cupping her face. She never realized he went into battle with the rest of the regiment.

Her mind had been too clouded with possibilities of the future for reality to set in. He would have been at the front of the line.

Their last whispered words had not been ones of goodbye.

Katara dips her hands in the tinted water, and she grabs the spare cloth beside the basin. She has to help him. She has to make him comfortable.

"What happened to you?" she mutters to herself.

She tries to wash the blood away, struggling to find where the marred flesh starts. His eyebrow and some of his hair has been cleanly burned away. Jagged flesh races up his temple. His ear is now a nub; she assumes his left eye is lost. His breathing is too shallow and wheezy for his body to sustain itself. His forehead, though still sticky with blood, is too hot to the touch. There's sweat running down his nose, but his body is unmoving.

No one is looking. Katara draws her fingers over his lips, wanting so much to kiss him. He's still beautiful, she thinks. Her fingers trace the bow of his upper lip. The surgeon walks in before she can lean down. Before she can have one final kiss.

"Name? Condition?" The surgeon's hands are stained with blood, and his tone of indifference pierces Katara's heart.

"Lieutenant Zuko. Burn to the left side of his face; possible inner trauma as well." Her voice does not waver.

Zuko won't last the night.

Katara's heart clenches for another lost friend, for a lost love, and allows him to be carted away to the back of the med tent where all the lost causes- corpses -have been accumulating. Her hands are caked with blood; her uniform is more red than blue.

She is of no army now.

Katara catches Aang's eyes from across their camp. A pacifist who tried to avoid war but got dragged in against his will. And now Aang is loading his musket, already accepting the fate of joining the bodies on the battlefield.

The medical tent will be filled soon. Filled with more buzzing flies, rotting corpses, and the screams of the dying. Aang may be among them; he may stay out on the battlefield, dead instead of dying. With a slight nod, Katara lets Aang go and turns back to the bourbon placed in her hand by the surgeon. He tells her it's for the impending amputees. There is no more chloroform left.

One sip won't hurt.

The hot liquid pricks her throat, and tears collect in the corners of her eyes.

All Katara can do is wait. It will be her turn soon, as all of her friends have already had theirs. When it comes, she will lose. She will lose like everyone else.

There can be no victor in war.

* * *

 **Please review/follow/favorite:)**


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: I do not own ATLA.**

 **Thanks to Evile Ravynne Queene of Glasse, Guest, Shojobaby, harmonicmonic, LovinZuko, Sun Daughter, the 3 FCP Judges, and AbsolutelyAbbie for reviewing:)**

* * *

 _America, 1861_

* * *

Katara's dress swirls at her feet as she turns to watch her brother stomp across their tenement housing. "What do you mean you were fired?"

Sokka scratches the back of his head. "I wasn't fast enough and was slowing down production. But it was to damn hot in the room. All of us were sweating. They were planning a strike next week, though it probably won't go well for them."

Katara sighs, resting herself in a chair, her chocolate curls pooling over her shoulders. "What are we going to do? Father forbids me to work in a textile mill, and there are too many immigrants like us trying to find jobs."

"We can try to venture west? I've been told that San Francisco is an up and coming city."

"Can you hear that?" Katara says suddenly; her hoop skirts gather dust as she hurriedly makes her way to the small framed window.

Sokka angles his ear to the window she is looking out of.

"Nothing, I hear nothing," Katara repeats.

"I don't un-"

"No clipping of carriages, no bustling of the Boston citizens. There is no talking or movement of any kind. It's like a hush has fallen over the city. Can't you hear it?"

Sokka moves to stand behind her, looking above her hunched body. Many people are crowded around a newspaper stand. Many are franticly looking up from the front page to a person standing besides them. New and old immigrants, businessmen, and household women are all converged together. No one is saying a word.

One form poking out of the crowd catches Katara's eyes. His cap is tucked under his arm, a solemn frown is plastered on his face, and he repeatedly folds the newspaper back and forth, creasing it. "Aang!" Katara yells, waving her hand back and forth to get his attention. "Aang! Up here."

"Miss Katara," he says formally, bowing slightly, "have you heard the grave news?"

Both her and Sokka answer him with a questioning frown.

"Not only have the Southerners seceded but now they've fired on Fort Sumter." Aang pauses, collecting his thoughts. "We are at war with our brethren."

* * *

 _America, Late 1861_

* * *

Zuko wants to volunteer; he does not want to pay three hundred dollars as a scapegoat, forcing a poor citizen to take his place.

"You're an idiot, Zuzu."

His suite wrinkles as he slouches against the wall. His back hits into a portrait of a long dead relative. "Thank you for your unnecessary opinion."

"You're going to die," Azula says not looking up from her tea cup.

"I know how to hold a gun. What are you going to do for this war effort, knit?"

She taps a finger nail against the china, finally turning her piercing gaze on him. Her straight black hair is tied back in a blue ribbon. She is already showing her support. "Father will be most disappointed. Who will take over the family business?"

"Please Azula, you have been secretly running his railroad company for ages. I want no part in the back handed deals you participate in."

"If you die, I'll say 'I told you so.'"

"It's comforting to know you'll be present at my funeral."

"But why even bother?" Azula asks, looking up and seeming genuinely confused. "This war will be over in a few months, let some measly half rate immigrant fill your place. We won't be missing any of them since they keep coming. Or what about the poorer rats that live in the dirty slums? I'm sure there are enough people there to fill a whole regiment."

"I want to help."

"How honorable of you, Zuzu. Maybe you'll help improve the army and make sure we don't suffer another terrible defeat like the one at Manassas."

Zuko clenches his hands into fists. "You wouldn't understand."

He steps away from the wall, proceeding to walk towards the door and grip the gold plated handle.

"You're going to do it then," Azula says at last.

"I am," Zuko says sincerely, the knob already turning in his palm.

Quietly, Azula whispers, "Good luck."

* * *

 _America, 1862_

* * *

Dear Little Sis,

Training is going well. The rifles we use are cumbersome, nothing like the pistols we used to use when shooting rats on the ship.

Everyone is really getting along here since we are all from similar walks of life. There is a rich man here though, which surprised most of us enlisted folks. The colonel says he'll make a fine general someday; he'll probably make the rank of first lieutenant in a few months. You would like him Katara; he's not snobby at all. We've become friends.

I heard that dad's regiment is starting to fight out in the western theater. It may be our turn soon.

Write back soon.

Love,

Sokka

 **000**

Dear Brother,

I've tried signing up for a nursing course sponsored by Miss Dix, but she promptly dismissed me before I even said one word. I tried to make it clear that I have had experience at a local clinic in our neighborhood. She wouldn't listen.

It's so frustrating living in a man's world. I want to help the war effort, but my hands are tied.

Aang is afraid he is going to be drafted. I'm so worried for him; I told him to flee to British Canada, but he doesn't want to leave this country.

Please end this war soon.

Love,

Katara

 **000**

Dear Little Sis,

Don't do anything stupid. I hear the hesitation in your writing. You know _exactly_ what you can do. You are, aren't you? Please don't. Don't make this war harder on me or Dad. Stay safe back in Boston.

Zuko, the man I was telling you about before, has taken me under his wing. I'm finally getting a hand at using bayonets and pulling off multiple deadly shots before reloading.

Don't do anything stupid!

Love,

Sokka

 **000**

Dear Brother,

When I arrive, call me Kato.

Love,

Katara

* * *

Zuko is the first person to greet Katara- no, Kato -with a warm and pleasant smile. Like Sokka stated in his letters, Zuko bears the insignia of first lieutenant, a higher ranking than his comrades. His features are sharp and alert, his golden eyes alight with possibilities; his black hair is slicked back out of the way.

He is very handsome; Katara is too selfish to think otherwise. But as Kato, she sticks out her hand and tries not to buckle under his hard grip.

Katara is not signed up to be a main soldier, and Zuko kindly directs her to the medical facility, a rough field hospital converted from an old hotel. Sokka's stern eyes never leave her back as she walks onwards to find the head surgeon.

Zuko's hair is an inky, shaggy mess when he pulls her into the shadows that night. His fingers grip her arm to tightly, but he quickly releases when she groans in a sudden spark of pain.

"I know you're a woman," he says, blunt and to the point.

Katara sucks on the inside of her cheek before she responds. She tries to deepen her voice and cover her chest slightly. "I don't know what you are insinuati-"

"You have the gait of a woman, Kato. Luckily, it wasn't to noticeable when you arrived. But I still _noticed_. If you want to learn to be a man, I will teach you."

"Why are you helping me?" Katara asks quickly, dropping any suspicions that she is a man. "You should be dragging me to the General to have me punished."

His golden eyes cut across her face. "I am not a cruel man. Besides, I have a hunch that if my sister was a kinder person, she would be in a similar position." His steady golden gaze latches onto her eyes, her startling blue eyes. Zuko's lips quirks upwards. "What's your _real_ name?"

"Katara," she whispers. It will be the last time her birth name is spoken aloud.

Hesitantly, Katara walks back to their training camp, leaving her true identity behind. Katara is dead, buried and left behind in the hands of another soldier. She is now Kato, a man and a medical surgeon.

* * *

 **So this was orginally only going to be a oneshot, but** **AbsolutelyAbbie's** **amazing review convinced me to write some backstories on the characters. Hope this came out alright! What I've been studying in APUSH the past couple of weeks helped me write this chapter.**

 **If you want a chapter more focused on Zutara, I am very open for writing a third chapter...**

 **Please Review/Favorite/Follow:)**


	3. Chapter 3

**Disclaimer: I do not own ATLA.**

 **Thank you to Evile Ravynne Queene of Glasse, Guest, Guest, LovinZuko, Vonna530 for reviewing:)**

* * *

 _America, 1862_

* * *

"You're still walking wrong."

"I'm not really sure how I can walk wrong; I've been practicing since I was two." Katara rolls her eyes, shoving a hand through her short brown hair.

"You swing your hips like a woman. A man strolls like he has a purpose."

"I _do_ have a purpose," Katara practically yells.

"You also slide your feet," Zuko continues, ignoring her. "A man naturally stom-"

"Oh La, where would I be without you?" Katara asks sarcastically.

"In prison, possibly hanged." Zuko shrugs. "Anywhere but here."

It is to dark to see his face properly. The moonlight shines shadows on his face, casting his golden eyes into a deep copper color. Zuko's black hair easily melts into the night. But the frown, turning down his pale lips, is visible.

Frustrated, Katara sighs. "I'm trying! What if you pretended to be a woman for just a day? How fast would you stumble and fail?"

"Yes," he starts, "all true. But you need to learn as fast as you can. We wouldn't want anymore whispered suspicions."

"Wait," Katara says, stopping suddenly in her pacing, "people are already figuring it out?"

"Not exactly. They just think you would have a different taste in a lover." He blinks and suddenly Katara can see red staining his cheeks in the dark. "If you understand my meaning."

"Arrggg! I don't know which one is worse. Both would get me into serious trouble."

"Don't worry, Kato," Zuko says soothingly. "We'll diverge all suspicion from you. And they're good lads; they wouldn't snitch on either."

Katara nods back as fear starts to accumulate in her eyes. His eyes soften to golden sympathy.

"Let's work on your spitting technique."

"My what?!"

* * *

"Now any soldier will be discouraged when finding out he will be losing a limb. But it is for the best. Overrule their decision and make sure they're heavily drugged up with chlorophyll."

Katara's face twists into a scowl as the head surgeon lists off the steps to performing a perfect amputation. Other medical soldiers nod along eagerly, oblivious to what a scene would look like during a battle scenario.

The model is little more than a sack of rice, piled to resemble a human figure.

"Tightly turn the tourniquet on the patient's arm or leg before starting. Make an incision circling about five to ten inches above the infected area. Don't be afraid by the resistance the bone will give, the saw will cut through it. After, sew together the skin to close off the area; use any rags you can find to warp the end of the stump."

Katara finds herself raising her hand, wiggling her fingers to get his attention. "Sir, shouldn't we be using clean and disinfected rags?"

The surgeon narrows his eyes; he sneers. "The first few seconds are critical. You will not have time to be _picky_."

"But _Sir_ , I've read that infection is killing more soldiers than on the battlefield. Shouldn't we try our bes-"

"I am your superior officer," he yells, his graying hair frizzy and eyes frazzled, "I've been behind the front lines; I have seen the true horrors. You are nothing, insignificant. Do not correct me again!"

Katara mutely nods and fades to the back. Searching for relief from the scolding, her blue eyes find Zuko barking orders to a crowd of new recruits. Her chest warms, and her mind simmers down.

* * *

"What was the old world like?" Zuko asks, taking off his uniform.

Katara turns around, blush spreading across his cheekbones. He really didn't have to that in front of her. When she hears the splash of water, she hesitantly turns finding the bottom half submerged with only his chest in view. "Snowy," is her only answer.

Small scars freckling his pale skin become visible as she moves closer to the water's edge. Their hidden stories intrigue her.

"Are you going to come in?"

"I was thinking of bathing later." Her eyes trace the heavens, and her cheeks are patterns of red blush. The stars smile down upon her.

"That could be dangerous with your situation," Zuko says, his eyes twinkling as he splashes water onto her legs.

"Hmmm. Is this your way of getting me naked, Lieutenant Zuko?" Cockyness grows in her voice, her hands already on the collar of her shirt.

"How could you think so low of me?" He mockingly places a hand on his chest. "That hurts, Kato."

"Oh? Maybe I should stop unbuttoning my shirt." Katara lets the article of clothing drop to the ground. Her trousers are thrown into the clothing pile, and she stands- mostly -naked before him. Breast bands and underwear cover her private parts.

Her long, caramel legs glide through the water as her feet carry her to him. Water laps at Katara's stomach.

"You dropped this," Katara whispers, placing a chunk of soap back into his hands. It had fallen with a clunk onto the water's surface. Katara is but a finger away from him, and she continues to stare into his eyes.

"Much obliged." Zuko's voice is thick.

* * *

 _America, December 24, 1862_

* * *

"Is this what your home country looked like?" Zuko asks while he continues to clean the barrels of his rifle. Katara's brother sits a rock away and answers for her.

"The snow was whiter. Not with this dirty soot that is mixed in when it falls on the city," Sokka grunts.

"Why didn't you settle in the countryside, become farmers. It sounds like that was a life you were hoping to find."

"The boat dropped us off in the Boston Harbor," Katara responds, "The city was in front of us and that's where we stayed."

Zuko hums in response, slowly dragging his sullied cloth in and out of the barrel of his rifle.

Katara continues, stuck in a memory. "The hustle and bustle of the city startled us at first," she laughs, "it made me jump every time someone yelled. There was so much animosity, nothing like the quaint and friendly village we left. Our dad had arrived a couple of years earlier, so he had already acquired a good amount of wages to live comfortably, as one could in a decaying apartment."

"What about you, Zuko? Are you first generation American?" Sokka interrupts.

"My family is descendants of the first colonists. As far as I know, most of my family has been born on American soil. There's nothing special about us."

Besides being extraordinarily rich, Katara's inner thoughts mumble. "So you're a city boy through and through," Katara teases instead.

"And you're a country gal," Zuko coughs, "guy, a country guy."

Sokka jumps in his seat from Zuko's sudden slip up but doesn't proceed to comment. His knuckles tighten on the stock of the rifle, and his eyes will never leave Zuko's figure until all is explained. And it will be explained soon, in the rushing and stuttering of Zuko's speech when he is nervous.

* * *

It's midnight now, and Christmas morning will be coming soon. Soft flakes float from the pitch black sky. They collect in her hair, creating a reef that drips water onto her forehead and plasters her short locks to her cheeks.

"How's training coming along?" Zuko asks quietly, his back pressed against the frosty bark of the tree. His arms wrap loosely around her waist as Katara sits in between his legs. They are hidden from the camp and patrolling soldiers.

"I barely agree with the man in charge and it takes all of my energy to bite my tongue. But I am now confident that I can save your life if the need arises."

"I'm sure that will be any day now," Zuko jokes, adding in his own dry chuckle.

Katara turns her body to whack him in the shoulder. "Don't even joke about that!"

Zuko raises his hands in surrender. "Okay, okay this is not the time for those jokes. I'll save them for after the war."

"After? You can see that far ahead?"

He takes her face in his hands. "You've shown me that."

His lips fold over hers. Katara is quick to respond, knowing they have to be careful. Her hands fist in his hair as she pulls herself closer. His pale, chapped lips are coarse against her own.

This is real life, and Zuko is kissing her.

He shakily pulls back, his eyes bright and alive. "Merry Christmas, Kato."

* * *

 _America, January 1, 1863_

* * *

"Is it true?" Katara says breathlessly.

Zuko sports a grim frown, his golden eyes lidded. "I-I'm afraid it is. We're all leaving in the morning. I was so ready before. To fight, to put this country back together. Now I have something to live for; I don't want to lose you."

Katara clutches his hands, threading her fingers through his. "Don't worry, we will survive this war together."

* * *

 **Don't you just love dramatic irony?**

 **I thought a bunch of short Zutara moments would suffice. I hope this was what you wanted. And yes, I did watch Mulan before writing this. But most of this has to come from my love of the new PBS show Mercy Street, which is about the Civi War.**

 **I have decided that this will be the final chapter.**

 **Edit 2/9:**

 **This will not be the final chapter. I lied, sorry!**

 **Please Review/Favorite/Follow:)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I do not own ATLA.**

 **Thanks to Evile Ravynne Queene of Glasse, TheRealAvatar, waterlit, and AbsolutelyAbbie for reviewing:)**

* * *

 _America, 1865_

* * *

Katara clutches the old and used rifle in her arms. Her hair has grown longer in the last few years. Her brown tresses gingerly brush her shoulders; her legs move under the familiar swish of skirts; her body is once again constrained into a corset.

She is free of her disguise. But the war will never leave her.

It scarred her in ways that will never be healed.

White crosses sparkle under the sun. Blue ribbons are tied to those few who actually tried to make a difference in the war but not for those who only added to the impressive body count. Katara's eyes flicker over the rows and rows of crosses. The writing is too blurry from this distance, but she is already mapping the route she must take in her mind, the rows she has to weave through and paths she will eventually have to leave. She must venture to two different places in the cemetery, one for officers, one for the regular soldiers.

Three graves; three bodies Katara still has not come to terms with.

The rifle she holds in her hand is rusted from being thrown into the rain five weeks ago. It had been an expulsion of her anger. The trigger is dented and broken. It will never fire again, like her heart.

She places on foot on the graveled path, sucking in a breath. Katara flinches when a bullet passes by her hair. She shivers as the metal ball inflames her skin, burning a mark into her skin; she cries out, sinking her knees to the ground in front of an unnamed grave belonging to an unknown person.

But the bullet is only in her imagination, and her blue eyes dim in recognizing it as such.

The rifle presses closer to her breasts as she finally staggers to her feet. The wind pinches her skin, and it howls the forgotten names.

She stops at her father's grave first, the last of her men to die. He fell under the command of General Grant and never rose again. She whimpers his name- " _father, why?"_ -but will not shed any tears.

Katara hurriedly whips her head around, deciding to make a run for the regular soldiers' section, leaving the worst death for the end.

Not being able to see Sokka's final moments still pierces her heart years later. Katara keeps their last correspondence folded and tucked away in an oak desk. Sokka had been missing for quite some time- like Aang is now -but the army found his burnt body washed down a large, raging river months later, a month before the war's end.

Her fingers tingle with numbness by the time she stands from this grave marker to proceed to the final one. The lacquered wood of the rifle cuts imprints into her dark skin.

 _Lieutenant Zuko of the 18th Regiment_

 _1839 to 1863_

 _A brave soldier_

The tears fall, splattering the ground and staining the grass a dark green. Katara presents the rifle to the grave, as if presenting an offering to an alter, to a deity who will never answer he back. She delicately places it in front of the grave marker. Tears dot the rifle, and Katara uses the hem of her skirt to wipe their remanence away.

"H-how are you? Wait, that was a really stupid thing to say." Her breaths are shaky; they quiver in the summer air. "I miss you so much; my heart has never stopped aching. I don't think I will ever be whole again."

Katara's cheeks are red as she hiccups. "You took a part of me when you died, but I still love you, forever and always. This is my proper goodbye to you."

She's leaving now. Leaving her country, her nationality, and her name all behind. No one will know of Katara, a young woman thrown into the line of fire, found love and died with him, yet still lives as a husk of her former self.

The history books will never remember her name and neither will she.

* * *

 **So I know I lied last week... but I realized a couple of days after that I needed to complete the story. Here you go; this really is the last chapter.**

 **The 18th regiment is nothing special besides 18 being my favorite number. Basically nothing on Aang, but I really just wanted to focus on Katara for this last chapter.**

 **Hope you all enjoyed the story:)**

 **Please Review/Follow/Favorite:)**


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